Hell Divers Series | Book 8 | King of the Wastes

by Smith, Nicholas Sansbury

  X gave an authoritative nod and followed them out of the room. They each had their own duties to keep this place safe, and X had his. Tonight, it was to make damn sure the Vanguard got away before the storm hit.

  Five

  It was almost two in the morning when Michael secured the last of the heavy-duty canvas tarps on the top of the agriculture rig. A loud humming filled his ears. He wiped the rain from his goggles and looked to the sky as the Vanguard’s thrusters fired. The blue torches burned in the darkness.

  “Good luck, my friends,” he said.

  The airship blasted over the rig.

  “There she goes,” Alfred said.

  “Hope she has better luck than the last crew that went to Panama,” Steve said.

  “What’s that mean?” Alfred asked.

  “I was just a boy, but I remember it well. About two years after a Cazador crew found my people and brought them here as slaves. That same crew went to Panama and never came back.”

  “Does X know about this?” Alfred asked.

  “Yes,” Michael said.

  “Good. I figured as much,” Steve said. He pulled out a hammer and drove a nail into a metal sheet covering a trough.

  The crew fanned out across the acres of crops to make final preparations. By now, tarps covered most of the plants that weren’t ready for harvest, but if the winds got worse, they would blow away like ash in a firestorm.

  Even the metal panels Steve was installing over some of the troughs wouldn’t work if the storm grew worse than they expected.

  “I think that’s the last of them,” he called out.

  “Okay, good work,” Michael said. “Let’s get down to the livestock.”

  Rodger’s voice crackled into his earpiece.

  “Chief, we just finished securing the port,” he said. “All boats are lifted out of the water and buttoned up the best we can get them. Still working on draining Blood Trawler, but the Octopus and Ocean Bull are full now.”

  “Copy that,” Michael replied.

  Lightning flashed nearby, and the thunder crack made him flinch. He had thought working as a chief engineer would be less dangerous than Hell Diving, but right now it was a lot like diving, only without the armor and protective gear.

  “Shit, I felt that one,” Steve said.

  “With all those tools, you’re a walking conductor,” Alfred said, laughing.

  Steve looked down to his tool belt, filled with all sorts of hammers and multitools. “I’ve been wearing this for thirty-five years, no problem!”

  “Famous last words!” someone said.

  The crew laughed as they headed down to the livestock corrals.

  Michael took a ladder down three levels, where hogs squealed and chickens squawked, sensing the impending storm. The farmers tended the animals on the lower levels, trying to calm them down. Each was precious for the milk, eggs, or meat that it contributed to the fragile ecosystem.

  “I’ll finish up here, amigos,” Steve said. “Why don’t you two get to the marina and make sure everything’s secure.”

  “Thanks,” Michael said. He rushed back to his boat with Alfred and lowered it into the roiling water.

  Nights like this reminded Michael how fragile things were at the islands. He got into the boat and pulled away from the rig, the distant cries fading in the wind.

  Gripping the wheel in his bionic hand, he headed for the Wind Talker rig. He had promised Layla he would be back home before the worst of the storm hit.

  The radio crackled as he navigated the sloppy seas. Reports of damage to the rig that housed half the Cazador population. Another report of damage to the trading-post rig. Then a message from Pedro that made his gut clench.

  “Incendio en el tanque,” he said.

  “What?” Michael said in a stunned tone. But he knew he hadn’t misheard.

  “Fire on the tanker. Bomberos—fire teams—on the way. I go there now.”

  “Be careful, Pedro, we’re on our way!”

  He steered away from the cargo rig to the Wind Talker rig, their last oil production source and the site of the wind turbines.

  If Blood Trawler exploded, it could take the entire rig down.

  The implications gave Michael a chill. It wasn’t just the loss of life and the lost fuel that scared him, but the poisoning of the water they relied on for much of their food supply.

  The speedboat powered over the waves, and within a half mile, Michael could see the glow of the fire.

  “Alfred, get us a sitrep.”

  “They think it was lightning,” Alfred said over the radio, “but I don’t know. It sounds like the crew is abandoning ship.”

  “What! They have to get it away from the rig!”

  “I know,” Alfred said as Michael tacked into the waves.

  A few minutes later, Michael spotted the red lights of other vessels flashing in the storm. He glanced at the fuel gauge. It was almost on empty—yet another reminder of how precious fuel was at the Vanguard Islands.

  “Tin, are you there?” his wife’s voice said on a private channel.

  He shook his head. Layla was never going to stop calling him by his childhood nickname. “Copy,” he said.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Lightning hit Blood Trawler.”

  “What?”

  “We’ll put it out,” Michael said, going for his most reassuring voice. “Don’t worry. Tell Bray I love him and I’ll be home soon.”

  “Michael, please be careful.”

  He heard the edge of concern in her voice. “I will.”

  He slowed the boat as he came upon the western side of the oil rig, where four levels rose above the main platform that supported the drilling module. The two-hundred-foot-tall rig was a dirty brown color after centuries of exposure to the elements.

  Not a single fleck of paint was left on the hull, and soon there wouldn’t be a hull if they didn’t put out the fire on Blood Trawler, which was still docked on the eastern side.

  Flames raged on the bow, belching dark smoke into the storm. The rain wasn’t doing much, if anything, to quell the flames that vented from the bow.

  Michael docked his boat in the enclosed marina, where a crew was waiting. Two Cazador workers tethered the craft while he and Alfred jumped off.

  A few minutes later, Steve pulled in with his crew.

  A toothless Cazador covered in grease hopped down off a ladder onto the dock in front of them. He coughed as he ran over to them.

  “Chief,” he gasped, “el tanque no se mueve. Stuck!”

  “Repite, por favor,” Michael said, hoping he had misheard.

  “No move it!”

  “We have to get someone to move it!”

  “No move it!”

  Steve spoke in Spanish to the frantic Cazador, then turned to Michael.

  “He says the engines are offline and that is why the crew abandoned it,” Steve said. “Most of the crew, that is, but a few stayed behind and are in the engine compartment, including Rodger and Pedro.”

  “No, no,” Michael said. “We have to help.”

  He turned to go back to his boat, but Alfred grabbed him by the arm. “Only way to get on the ship—or the safest way—is from the deck of the rig. I’ll get someone on that crane.”

  “You guys serious?” Steve asked.

  “You know what will happen if this rig blows?” Michael asked. “We have to get Blood Trawler as far away from the islands as possible.”

  “The fishing grounds.” Steve looked out over the ocean, apparently realizing what Michael had already grasped.

  “I’m coming with,” Steve said. “I’m an old man. You’re young and have families.”

  “No, stay here,” said Michael. “I need you to make sure the rig is protected.”

  “But . . .”


  “I put Rodger on this task. It’s on me.”

  Steve nodded. “Gotcha, boss. Just come back, okay?”

  “I will.”

  Alfred and Michael started up an enclosed ladder to the first level. Michael’s boot slipped on the third rung, but his robotic fingers held him fast.

  They both coughed from the smoke already making its way inside the rig. At the top of the ladder, he stood on a landing, breathing through his sleeve.

  Alarms rang throughout the passage on the first level, and panicked voices called out in English and Spanish.

  Michael ran toward the retreating workers. A stairwell took him to the command center on the top deck, with a direct view down to Blood Trawler. A group of rig workers stood looking at it through the viewport.

  “What in hell are you all doing watching!” Steve shouted. He yelled something in Spanish, and the team all took off to their various stations.

  Michael stopped briefly to stare at the inferno blazing below. The tanker, still half full, sat fairly low, hardly moving as the big waves slapped against it, dousing flames that returned the moment the water receded.

  The waves were pushing the ship closer to the rig. It wouldn’t be long before the bow collided with one of its supporting columns.

  Turning from the window, Michael and Alfred rushed out of the room to the emergency supply room. Heavy fire jackets and helmets hung neatly on hooks, and air tanks lined the shelves below.

  “Chief, I got a bad feeling about this,” Alfred said.

  “We can’t lose this rig or the ship,” Michael replied. “We lose this ship, and we lose our energy lifeblood. And then there’s the fish it will kill off.”

  “You never told me this job might get me killed,” he joked. But Michael caught the little tremor in his voice.

  “We’ll be okay,” Michael said. “Just keep your eyes open and stay close.”

  They finished getting into their fire gear and hurried back outside to the deck. Steve was there waving up at the operator in the cab.

  Smoke swirled across the western side, and the rising wind beat against Michael and Alfred as they crossed the deck to the crane. It lowered a box in front of them.

  Michael climbed inside the box.

  “You sure you want to do this?” he yelled at Alfred.

  “Are you sure?” Alfred shouted back.

  As Michael reached up to signal the crane operator, he considered his promise to Layla. It wasn’t just the two of them now. Their year-old child was at home.

  But Michael couldn’t just sit by and do nothing if Rodger was still alive and there was still hope of saving the tanker.

  He motioned to the crane operator, making circles with his upward-

  pointing finger, and the box lifted off the deck.

  It began to rotate in the gusts.

  The wind slammed the jib, rocking the box like an empty can on a string. But the jib swung slowly left as it lowered them toward Blood Trawler’s stern, away from the smoke roaring out of the bow section.

  “Good luck!” Steve shouted.

  Mountainous waves bashed against the tanker’s hull, threatening to drive it into the rig. Indeed, the water seemed to be the only thing keeping the fire from spreading even faster, but if the tanker hit one of the rig’s legs, it would burst like a bomb, setting off an inferno that could end the Vanguard Islands.

  As the box lowered, Michael prepared to jump.

  “Get ready!” he yelled.

  Alfred pulled off his helmet and vomited over the side into the rain, nearly falling out when a strong gust shook the box. Reaching out, Michael hauled him back inside.

  “Oh, shit,” Alfred moaned.

  Gripping the sides, Michael looked over the edge.

  Cracking sounded over the wind—a noise that sent a chill up his back. A glance over his shoulder confirmed it.

  The jib buckled at its attachment point to the boom, and the box started to drop the last ten feet to the oil tanker’s deck.

  “Hold on and bend your knees!” Michael shouted.

  They had only an instant to brace themselves before they hit. Michael bit his lip and tasted blood.

  He rolled out of the box and slid to a stop near the tanker’s command tower. Alfred helped him to his feet.

  “You good, Chief?”

  “Yeah . . . I think so.”

  They headed toward the hatch in the command tower that would lead them to the engine room.

  As soon as they were inside, Michael felt the heat. He pulled out Cricket and did a scan of the hull.

  The first reading came back at 110 degrees, and they weren’t even close to the fire yet.

  Sweat trickled down Michael’s forehead as he worked his way through the dark passages, guided by his helmet lamp.

  The scorching heat reminded him of working in the guts of the Hive when he first became an engineer, before his diving days.

  Hearing a loud rumbling, Michael halted.

  “Those are the engines,” he said. “Rodger must have gotten them back online. Go topside and get on the wheel. I’ll find him.”

  Alfred turned back the way they had come while Michael kept pushing ahead.

  “And look for Pedro on your way up!” Michael shouted.

  He moved cautiously, flitting Cricket back and forth and up and down for scans. The engine room wasn’t far, but the heat was getting worse with every step down the ladder. It was almost 130 degrees here.

  He turned around a landing and discovered a body of a worker, his skin pink and eyes bulging.

  A touch to the neck confirmed death, probably from smoke inhalation.

  Michael continued down the stairs, his muscles tense. If the vessel exploded, he reminded himself, he wouldn’t feel a thing. He thought of Layla and Bray and considered turning back.

  You came this far. You can’t abandon Rodger and Pedro.

  A few minutes later, he was at the engine room. The hatch was closed, but the handle wasn’t hot to the touch. He spun it open and stepped into the engine room.

  A body was hunched against the main engine. The peg leg sticking out of the jumpsuit confirmed his fears.

  “Rodger!” Michael cried.

  He ran over and put a finger to his friend’s neck. There was a pulse, and his chest was moving gently up and down.

  Michael shook him.

  “Rodger, you need to get up,” he said. “We have to get out of here.”

  Rodger blinked and slowly looked up, sweat and tears rolling down his face.

  “We got it back on,” Rodger said. “Pedro . . . where . . .”

  Rodger slumped over.

  “Rodger,” Michael said.

  He moaned but didn’t respond. Michael got up to look for Pedro, but the man wasn’t here. He returned to Rodger and scooped him up in both arms, cradling his body.

  “Hold on, buddy,” he said. “I’m going to get you out of here.”

  * * * * *

  X grunted as he put on his Hell Diver jumpsuit in the enclosed marina under the capitol tower. The insulating layers would help protect him from lightning, but it wasn’t going to do much against the fire on Blood Trawler when he boarded.

  And he was boarding that ship as soon as he got close enough.

  Michael and Rodger were on board, and Pedro was missing. No one was going to stop X from saving them if they were still alive.

  “They are steering the boat away from the oil rig,” Imulah said. “You really should let the engineering team deal with this, King Xavier.”

  “And you really should stop telling me what to do,” X snapped back.

  “He’s right, we can handle this,” said Steve over the radio. “The ship is already moving away from the rig.”

  The engineer and weaponsmith was supervising the crew at the
oil rig where Blood Trawler had been refueling other ships.

  “I’m on my way,” X said.

  “Okay, sir,” Steve replied.

  Metallic cranking sounds rose to compete with the shouts of crews lowering vessels into the choppy sea. Two other boats would be joining X on the water.

  He finished putting on the protective suit and stepped over to his boat, the One-Armed Bandit. Ton and Victor were already aboard, preparing the armored yacht that Michael had helped restore as a gift to X.

  “We’re coming to help, King Xavier,” Victor said in his thick African accent.

  “You don’t know how to swim,” X said.

  “Then don’t drive bad.” Victor smiled and Ton laughed, which, due to his missing tongue, sounded almost like choking.

  “Be careful, King Xavier,” shouted Steve. “I’ll be right with you.”

  X strapped goggles over his eyes and lugged a bag of equipment over to the boat, which was hoisted out of the water by a convertible electric/manual lift. Miles tried to board, but X motioned the dog back.

  “Stay with Imulah,” X said forcefully.

  The dog sat on his haunches, whining.

  “But, King Xavier, I really think you should . . .” Imulah began to say.

  X glared at the scribe, who put his hands up, before crouching down to Miles. “Come here, my friend.”

  The dog growled at Imulah, and this time X couldn’t help but chuckle.

  A familiar and frantic female voice ended it.

  “X, wait!”

  He turned to see Layla running down the dry dock with something clutched in her arms.

  Not something—someone.

  “Just what I need,” X grumbled.

  Layla stopped in front of the boat, a crying Bray in her arms. The yearling wailed like a Siren.

  “Tell me what’s going on,” she said. “Michael told me lightning hit Blood Trawler.”

  X couldn’t lie to Layla.

  “It did, but—”

  “I’m coming with you.”

  She handed Bray off to Imulah, who acted as if the baby were a live bomb.

  “Take him,” Layla said.

  “But, Mrs. Everhart . . .” Imulah protested.

  “It’s a dog and a child,” X said. “Deal with it.”